


And I Never Really Sleep Anymore

by tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Insomnia, Late Night Conversations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:00:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has insomnia. Castiel can relate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I Never Really Sleep Anymore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annundriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/gifts).



> For [](http://annundriel.livejournal.com/profile)[**annundriel**](http://annundriel.livejournal.com/), one of the most talented people I've ever seen, and someone I admired from afar for a long time before overcoming my shyness to become her friend. And I'm so, so glad I did. Beta’d by [](http://stellamaris99.livejournal.com/profile)[**stellamaris99**](http://stellamaris99.livejournal.com/) and [grlkat](http://www.twitter.com/grlkat).

Three-o-clock and Dean's not sleeping. He's tried drinking, he's tried with and without sheets, and he's tried lying on the floor, then the tile of the bathroom, and none of it has worked. His body's alive with that not-quite-right buzz that he gets sometimes, the feeling like he's vibrating too quickly, his string's too taut to find its way to stillness. He's not even sleepy. It's more like feeling sick. His head's hot and his stomach's sour, and there's just no rest to be found for him.

He trudges out in sweats and a tee, barefoot, to the steps of the motel. There's a little staircase that connects the parking lot to the concrete walkway that serves as an outdoor hall, and Dean sits there, eyes on the red glow on the horizon that's not sunrise but highway and city, lit up as dim and restless as he is right now. Times like this Dean wonders what he'd be like as a city boy, if he'd taken to high-rises instead of flat stretches of highway, slick discos instead of honky-tonk bars. Maybe he'd be more at home.

He leans forward, hands folded under his chin, and breathes in chilly air. Then another breath, warmer, because he's not alone anymore - the flap of fabric, a groan as it folds, and Castiel's taken a spot next to him on the steps, sitting wordlessly, eyes just as distant as they stare off into the red haze.

"Cas," Dean grunts.

"You can't sleep." Castiel's voice slips into his ear easy and low, like black coffee, and Dean feels a little bit more awake for the familiar smoothness of it.

"Pretty much."

"I can relate." The angel's smiling, in his way. His lips have quirked into a sideways line.

"Doubt it." Castiel tilts his head, a protest waiting on his lips, and Dean goes on. "You don't have to sleep."

"But I do feel fatigue." Dean has nothing much to say to that. He knows that's the case; he's seen the weariness in Castiel's eyes too often to refute it. "I find that there are times, like this, when I should be resting, saving my strength, and yet I just can't." Castiel pauses. "Is that similar to how you're feeling?"

Dean nods. "Guess so. I lie in bed, and I feel like I'm just this close to falling asleep, but it doesn't ever happen."

"It's just that far out of reach."

Dean nods. He finds he's studying Castiel's profile, trying to make contact with his hopelessly distant eyes, but he can't. They're fixed past Dean's perception. "A peace I know is there, but I can't grasp it. I can't take it for myself."

His fist clenches briefly, and Dean's gaze is drawn to it. Castiel's fingers are long, knobbly, almost awkward, but when his hand closes there's power there. Is there anything Castiel can't grasp with hands like those?

It's a weird thought, the thought of an insomniac, and Dean chuckles. The sound pulls Castiel's attention away from whatever far horizons he's been scanning, and he locks eyes with Dean. There's a pull there, a tide cresting between their gazes, and Dean feels it move him, knock him just that much off balance.

"So we're a pair of insomniacs," he says, casually, leaning back on the steps and tearing away from the feeling that the earth is shifting under his feet.

"Another commonality."

The wording catches his notice first, then the concept. "You think we have a lot in common?"

Castiel frowns. "Of course we do."

"Hm." Dean doesn't see it, no matter how hard he looks. When he sees Castiel's nobility, his graveness, and his determination to always do the right thing, Dean doesn't see things they have in common. He only sees evidence of his own failings. If he were just a little bit more like Cas. More upright. More powerful, with a stronger will.

He can only think to joke about it. "I don't know, Cas. I mean, we both like burgers, but past that--"

"You are the reflection of my own greatest potential," Castiel says softly. "In you, I see who I would like to be."

The words drop into silence.

A lump of something unpleasant is in Dean's throat. He swallows it hard, but it bobs up again, irrepressible, and Dean gives up, lets it hover there as he stares at Castiel. "I'm your potential?" he manages to say. "That's kind of backwards, isn't it? I mean... you're the angel. If anything, you're the guy I wish I could be. You're strong enough--" and his eyes drift down over Castiel's arm. Sure, they're not muscular, not the way his and Sam's are, but there's power there, power Dean has felt, and thinking about it is making his body hum with some excitement beyond the uncomfortable buzz of insomnia. "And you-- you get it, you know what matters. You're not always distracted with, you know, women and booze--"

 _And angels with bright blue eyes that you spend forever trying to figure out, and they sit on the steps next to you and you're still not sure if they're real._

He might be leaning a little bit toward Castiel now, or maybe it's the lack of sleep disrupting his balance. But it's just occurred to him how close they are, and how the serenity of Castiel's eyes is the perfect blue complement to the red horizon.

Then that serenity is pointed at him, eyes searching his, and Dean is awake, trembling with nearness and possibility he can't name or even characterize within his own mind.

Castiel's lips part (heaven-kissed pink lips, lips that Dean's sure have never uttered a lie), and he says, "It occurs to me that--" He hesitates, and Dean's whole breath and life is hovering on the edge of the words that haven't yet dropped from Castiel's tongue-- "that when we are awake like this, searching for a peace that is just beyond our reach--"

He swallows, an utterly human movement, and it fascinates Dean more than anything else.

"Perhaps that peace is-- what we are looking for is--"

"In each other?" Dean finishes, words like broken glass, transparent and rough-edged. "Is that what you're saying?" His hand is already hovering over Castiel's knee, threatening to descend. He never told it to do that. It's terrifying.

Castiel saves him, as he always does. He grabs Dean's errant hand and entwines their fingers, guiding it down. "Maybe it is," he says, "yes."

Dean's throat is struggling with Castiel's name but his body is vibrating too hard to let it out.

"Dean," Castiel says. "I remade your body. I-- touched-- every inch of it."

This one admission breaks down a thousand walls. Castiel is letting him know it would not be the first time, if they were to touch now. It's Castiel's way of giving him permission.

It's kind of cute.

"And did you feel that peace you're looking for?" Dean says with a smirk. He pulls his hand free and slides it across Castiel's face.

"I felt... promise." Castiel's eyes are lowered now but Dean can still feel their blaze.

Dean angles his mouth down to touch Castiel's. It's a brief catch-and-release of a kiss, there and gone in a moment, but it's not tentative. It's solid, sure. And the promise is there.

A thousand pins burn beneath Dean's skin. The seams where Castiel put him back together ache, awakening muscle memory Dean didn't know he was holding. Castiel's arms rise to touch Dean's shoulders, cross them, hands clasping at the back of his neck. Dean leans in for another kiss, longer this time. His tongue swipes along the pucker of Castiel's slack lips and God _yes_ , here is the harmony he's been looking for, the note to match the frequency his body has been vibrating at all night long. Noise becomes music, and all the aching energy of his body suddenly has purpose, has an outlet. He draws Castiel near, kissing him harder, adding a nipping bite, sharp percussion to the liquid symmetry of their lips. Castiel groans low and long.

They're still side by side on the steps, thighs barely touching. Which is fine by Dean. He's still too busy exploring Castiel's mouth and face, his neck and shoulders. The rest of the body can wait. There's an infinite variety here in the strength and pressure of lips, the invasive push or reflexive defense of tongues. If it weren't for the stubbornly hardening lump in Dean's sweats, he might be happy to sit here and kiss Castiel for days.

Castiel's so much less tentative than he expected, so much firmer, matching him tease for tease. When Dean bites at his lower lip, Castiel's tongue snakes out to skim the upper line of Dean's mouth, then sucks on it so hard that Dean groans and is forced to let go. Warmth washes through him, and his fingers drag hard on the sunken stubble of Castiel's cheeks and jaw. Pulling the first broken sound from Castiel's mouth is a triumph. The second makes him feel like the most powerful man on Earth.

Castiel pushes his face up past Dean's cheek, nips his earlobe, and murmurs his name into the tender flesh just behind. Dean groans, desire landing heavy as lead within him, and his hands leave Castiel's shoulders to trace down his spine. The realization that an angel is shivering at his touch, pressing up close so they're chest to chest, is almost absurd.

The whisper of his name sounds in his ear again, and Dean slows, allows Castiel to say what he wants to say. When the words fall, it's like being blessed, being touched with light.

"You are the peace I yearn for," Castiel whispers, "always. Your loyalty, your love." His hand runs down to skim Dean's chest, cups over the cage where his heart beats. "I wish I could feel the way you feel, Dean. Hurt the way you hurt."

Dean laughs, a tickling breath against Castiel's neck. "Weird thing to want."

"But hurt brings you hope," Castiel says. He pulls back, lays his forehead against Dean's, their heads nodding and eyes lowered like a praying man and his mirror image. "And you learn, and you grow and get stronger from every wound. I want to grow, too, Dean. I want to learn, and feel, and get stronger and better. I don't know how."

It's as much as he's ever heard Castiel talk about himself, his desires, and the words blaze like white fire under Dean's skin. He reaches up, draws Castiel's mouth to his, and sips long, measured kisses there, leaving his lips marked and swollen with the impressions of Dean's own mouth. He's not sure if he's trying to give Castiel something or take it, but with each sucking, possessive kiss he knows it's doing the trick. And when Castiel breathes raggedly into his mouth, then gasps for more air, the fire in Dean's body leaps.

"I can't help you hope, Cas," he murmurs. "I'm not too good at that myself. But I know I can make you feel."

He doesn't choreograph it, but somehow it works anyway: His hands drop to Castiel's waist and pull, twist, and at once Castiel's thigh is on the other side of him, Castiel's weight on his legs. An angel is in his lap, wide blue glass eyes staring down from just above him, and Dean has to close his eyes just to experience it fully. All that heat and weight and strength, bearing down on him, and Dean's not just surviving it, he's holding Castiel up, keeping him balanced. He shifts forward and _oh that's a lot of heat right there_ and Castiel makes a noise that forces Dean's eyes open and up.

Lips round, head tipped back, black strands of hair matted against his face. The sound of his moan dying in the air. Dean feels the sight enter his eyes like someone's just grasped both ends of his body and pulled tight. His own mouth falls open to give an answering noise.

Fingers touch the back of his neck and guide him upward and now they're kissing again, thick deep desperate sucks and twists of tongue, teeth biting into flesh, like they're trying to devour each other. It feels wild and right, and every time their lips part there's a pursing smacking noise that lights Dean up inside like a torch.

Castiel thrusts against him, an instinctive movement that Dean didn't think he knew to make, but _God_ it's nice to be wrong, that much hard hot man against him so suddenly and completely and by the time Dean figures out the words for it (that was them rubbing against each other, dry-humping, and well, it looks like Castiel isn't junkless after all), it's happening again, and a third time. By that third time it's not just Castiel, it's Dean answering, his hips jerking up into Castiel's, his cock rubbing the lump of hardness between Castiel's legs, and all  
at once his hands are pulling out the obstinate tuck of Castiel's shirt, diving beneath, and all Dean can think is _skin._

He wiggles out from beneath Castiel, rises to his feet, kissing him the whole way. Castiel follows him, unfolding, tan trenchcoat elongating like slowly spreading wings.

"Think we should head to bed," Dean whispers against Castiel's mouth.

"I thought you couldn't sleep."

"Don't want to sleep." He drags Castiel by the hipbones along the concrete walkway. "Open up one of these rooms for us. An empty one."

Castiel presses his hand to a door. The lock clicks, and the door swings inward. Dean pulls him into the room, flattens him against the back of the door, hips angling up hard to press his cock into Castiel's groin. Warmth balloons everywhere through him and beneath him, Castiel gives a desperate whimper and tries to get more, thrusting three times for Dean's one, hurried, impatient and overwhelmed.

"Easy, Cas," Dean murmurs, licking salt sweat from his neck, "easy. C'mere."

Castiel's voice breaks around his name, but the grinding eases, and Dean's able to lead him across the room, coax him down onto musty motel comforter. The smells of Castiel and motel mix surprisingly well, and Dean inhales deep into the crux between shoulder and bedsheet, feeling as though he could die from all the good and sexy and dirty that's diffusing into his nostrils. He groans loud, and his hands worm their way into Castiel's necktie, loosening, pulling, removing with relaxed intensity. He isn't in a hurry, but he's determined to feel every moment of this as powerfully as he can.

He doesn't remember Castiel working off his shirt, and he doesn't know if that's because Castiel worked his angel magic or whether he was just too far into the press and release of each of Castiel's buttons to pay attention to what else was going on. All he knows is that when he finally presses himself against Castiel's naked torso, he's naked too, and against that shocking swell of heat the removal of the rest of their clothes makes even less of an impression. Maybe he's slept through it. Maybe Castiel's cured his insomnia already.

But he's wide awake for that first frenzied stroke of Castiel's cock, the slot of both of them into his hand, the shudder-throb that goes through him when the heads touch, soft against sensitive, like silk whispering across his nerve endings. It would be subtle if it weren't so overpowering. Castiel seizes up beneath him, eyes wide and piercing as they stare into Dean's. "Dean," he says, and "please," and Dean's crumbled into a million pieces by the sight and sound of Castiel begging.

He doubles down, covering Castiel's face with angry bee-sting kisses, rubbing them twice as fast as he had, and even though there's a universe of things they could do in this moment with this much space, Dean's brain has shut down. He can't think of anything but this, the hard rub and smooth slide for their cocks together in his hand, and when Castiel's hand reaches down to reciprocate it's like suns exploding in his gut. An unfamiliar hand, but such an able one, and Dean remembers suddenly his idle thought earlier in the evening -- is there anything Castiel's hands can't grasp? Clearly not, and a swell of pride and warmth goes through him at the thought that after all this time, Castiel is still gripping him tight.

Dean doesn't want to scare him, but a sunrise-bright climax is building up through him that he doesn't think he can hold back. "Cas," he whispers between bruising kisses, his hips still motoring in slow rolls against Castiel's. "Cas, I'm gonna come. Is that--" another kiss he can't fight or deny, his lips sucked in and then released-- "is that OK?"

In answer, Castiel gives a quavering moan and his body locks up. A second later, he spurts into the scant space between them, painting their stomachs and hands with white.

"Oh, God," Dean mutters, and presses his face into Castiel's neck as release overwhelms him.

They're rolling and grinding slowly together, thighs brushing as they come down from the high point, as they descend from ecstasy into sensitivity. Dean shudders and winces, prying himself away, and flops onto the pillow next to Castiel with a loud exhalation of breath. Their shoulders remain pressed together, and Castiel's body is bleeding slow warmth into his through the contact.

"Dean," Castiel whispers, but he doesn't have any words to follow it with, or at least, he has no breath to say them. Dean remains quiet for a few minutes, giving him time to get it together. When nothing comes, Dean just nods and kisses his shoulder.

His eyes are bleary as they turn toward the window. There's still red on the horizon, but this time it is definitely the sunrise. Dean couldn't care less. He's got some sleep to catch up on. Finally, the peace that's eluded him is right there. Clutching Castiel's hand, he closes his eyes and lets it fall over him.

  



End file.
